


The Wolf and The Fox and The Falcon

by natcat5



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, Polyamory, fairytales - Freeform, mostly canon compliant, storybook format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 00:45:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natcat5/pseuds/natcat5
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>at first, the wolf was alone. but then he had the fox. and then he had the falcon.<br/>and then they had each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf and The Fox and The Falcon

**Author's Note:**

> I spent way too much time on this

Once upon a time there was a wolf who could not run.

It trotted lamely through the forest, tongue lolling and sides heaving with the effort it took to draw breath. Growls that should have been menacing were cut short by coughing. Howls that should have been beautiful were silenced by wheezing.

A voiceless wolf who couldn’t gather enough air to fly through the forest as his kind was meant to. He lay on his belly and rested his head on his paws, looking up at the sky and wondering what it would take to give him wings. What it would take to give him speed and power and strength and everything he needed to run with others. Everything he needed to not be alone.

(he was so tired of being alone)

His ears heavy with the labored sound of his own breathing, he did not hear the approach of another, not until the wind shifted and carried the intruder’s scent to him. It smelled like lightning during a thunderstorm and the lingering scent of a forest fire. Sharp and crisp and warm, like a spark. It smelt dangerous but familiar in a way the wolf had never before experienced. He got to his feet and turned, eyes widening in surprise when he saw the source of the scent.

It was a fox, with light brown fur and dark eyes, ears pricked and head tilted curiously. It trotted towards the wolf casually, before stopping and sitting a few steps away, head still tilted.

 _I’ve never known your kind to be alone,_ said the fox, dark eyes curious, _Where is your pack, Wolf? Why is yours the only scent that lingers here?_

And the wolf lowered his head and lowered his tail and could not hide the shame nor the pain he felt. Could not lie in front of the sharp quick eyes of the small brown fox.

 _I cannot run with them,_ said the wolf, eyes turned towards the ground, _I cannot keep up with them so they left me behind. I run alone._

The fox made a sound, one of disapproval, and the wolf startled as the smaller animal got to its feet and padded closer, stopping a mere hair’s breadth away.

 _How stupid,_ snorted the fox. _That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. What kind of pack deserts their own so callously? The wolves who left you are not wolves I would associate with._

The wolf bristled, angered by the comment. Because it was easy for the fox to say that. The fox, who was fine alone, whose heart and soul did not depend on running with others. The fox, who did not need to feel the warmth and breathing of packmates at his side. The fox knew _nothing._

 _They are the only wolves here!_ Snarled the wolf, flattening his ears back against his head, _They were the only ones I could run with! We are not_ meant _to run alone._ His growl weakened into a whine, and he huffed out a sad, tired sound, snapping his jaws irritably at the intruder.

The fox did not look intimidated, or even deterred by the bared teeth and bristling fur of the larger animal before him. It merely flicked its tail, twitched its nose, and tilted its head again.

 _Well,_ it said after a moment of silence, _you might be too slow to run with other wolves, but I bet you could keep up with me just fine. If you run with me, you won’t be alone, will you?_

The wolf stared at the fox silently, jaw dropping open in shock. He took a step back, blinking his eyes in confusion. _Run…with you?_

 _Yes,_ replied the fox, eyes glittering. And when he spoke again it sounded less like an answer and more like a _demand_.

_Run with me._

\--

Stiles is not Scott’s first friend, but he is the only friend who stays, the only friend who counts, the only friend who _matters._

When he was younger, he remembers, it wasn’t so much a bad thing, staying inside. He got extra time to colour and could use the fingerpaints without fighting over the blue with the other kids and the teacher used to take him for special walks around the school, which were fun.

It was only when the games the others played outside effected who they hung out with inside, that things began to matter. It was only when they’d sit with the same kids they played tag with, that Scott began to feel left out.

So when he enters first grade and is allowed, for the first time, to go out with the other kids. To _play_ and _join in_ on all of their games he’s sure that now is the moment. Now is the time that everything is going to change for him. He’s going to have _friends._

Instead, he has a circle of kids crowding around him, slackjawed, as he lays on the ground and gasps like a fish. Less then ten minutes into a game of tag, and he can’t get his breathing under control, hand shaking too much to hold his inhaler.

A teacher comes running, he’s ushered inside, and the next time they let him out he’s told to _walk._ To never do anything more than a light jog.

You can’t jog in the game of tag.

The friends he had made in his brief stint with running still talk to him, but it’s- it’s not- not the way they talk to each other. He’s _breakable._ He could start choking on air at any moment and he can’t join in any of their games at recess. He can’t _keep up._

He stares at his feet and walks everywhere and can’t run and is alone.

But then he meets Stiles.

Stiles is a blur of constant movement where Scott is forced to remain still. Stiles _never_ sits still and his mouth is always open and he runs _everywhere_ and when he’s not running he’s fidgeting and shaking his legs and playing with his hands.

He seems like the type of boy who would be _very_ good at tag, and Scott can’t understand why he doesn’t have any friends either.

But he doesn’t, and Stiles and Scott sit together one day while everyone else goes out for recess. Because the hot weather is making Scott’s asthma act up and Stiles is in trouble for mouthing off to a teacher and neither of them want to sit alone anymore.

They sit together, even when Stiles isn’t in trouble anymore. They walk and jog together even though Stiles’s limbs are full of energy and he’s always moving and Scott can’t understand why he’s okay with just _talking_ to Scott instead of playing tag with the others. But Stiles is fine with playing tag with just Scott. He’s fine with playing tag, and cops and robbers, and hide and go seek, and running beside Scott even though Scott can’t go fast at _all._

But for some reason, he’s fast enough to keep up with Stiles.

\--

The lone wolf grew a stronger.

There was a new strength in his lungs and a power in his howls and a disappearance of all forms of coughing and wheezing. He ran faster and faster with each day, until he could keep up with any creature who challenged him, could _beat_ any creature who contested him.

 _So this is what it means to fly through my forest,_ he thought triumphantly one night.

But even as he thought this, even as he celebrated his inner victory, he slowed his pace. He ceased to fly, and fell back to a pace reminiscent of the times when he was grounded and alone. Because he was _not_ alone any longer. He had someone to run with, someone to feel at his side, and that was more important then going fast. Feeling like he was flying was nothing compared to the feeling of finally having another to run at his side.

The fox caught up to him, tongue lolling out of its mouth and eyes tight with something unreadable.

 _Your wings have come in at least it seems,_ it said, the normal teasing tone slightly more subdued, _I can’t think of any reason for you to run now that you can fly. Why did you slow down for me, Wolf? Why are you still here?_

The wolf’s eyes widened, and it stopped running, turning towards the fox with disbelief.

 _Because we run together?_ He replied, confused as to what, exactly, had the fox so concerned. _Because you are always by my side and I at yours? We’ve run together for so long now, I can’t imagine you not being here, Fox. Why did you think I would leave you?_

The fox looked surprised, shocked even. Its expression was startled, eyes wide and jaw half open, before its muzzle shut and it turned its head away.

 _You could catch up to the other wolves now,_ it growled, tail flicking irritably in the dirt, _You don’t need me anymore._

 _But I_ want _you,_ whined the wolf, walking forward until its nose was pressed against the fox’s side, _You’re my_ pack, _Fox._

_\--_

Stiles, for all his bluster and sarcasm-fueled bravado, is painfully aware of his own shortcomings. He knows he’s loud and abrasive. He knows he lacks tact, social skills, and a large amount of basic human decency. He knows he talks more than he should and he knows he can be petty and he knows he lives in a moral gray area 90% of the time.

So it’s weird that he and Scott are as close as they are. It’s weird that they’ve been joined at the hips since elementary school. It’s weird that Scott, who is all dopey smiles and a disconcerting honesty, wants to hang around with Stiles, who is sharp grins and double-talk and lies.

It’s always been weird. But Stiles got used to the weirdness. At first he accepted that Scott was just limited in his friends options because of the asthma-enforced isolation. It takes years for him to accept that Scott genuinely likes him. That he enjoys his company, understands what he’s trying to say underneath all the sarcasm, and doesn’t begrudge him his sharp flashes of anger. They’re friends, then they’re best friends, and then they’re probably something more. Something that neither of them are actually going to sit down and put into words because they’re dudes and dudes don’t do that. Their dynamic works, _they_ work, and that’s all that matters.

Surprisingly, the werewolf thing doesn’t really throw that much of a wrench into things. They still need each other. Scott’s newfound lacrosse ability doesn’t make him need Stiles any less, and Stiles doesn’t ditch Scott just because associating with him has amped up the threats to his life by like 80%. They’re still best friends, they’re still close. Even if Scott can run now, even if Stiles now sits by himself on the bench.

It almost seems weird, staying together when everything that formed their dynamic has shifted on its head. But Scott still stays by him, Scott still stands with him, and yeah, okay, maybe there’s a bit more danger in their lives than usual, but whatever fundamental foundation supporting their friendship is still in place. They’re still best friends, _more_ than best friends, and apparently, that’s not going to change. Regardless of how much of a shitty human being Stiles is, or how fast Scott can run.

He can never completely dismiss the little pinpricks of doubt, however. Because he _knows_ himself. He knows he’s annoying and weak and has a wicked mean streak that comes out at the most inopportune times. He knows he can be selfish and he knows he’s Scott’s exact opposite in so many ways. Stiles knows that they became friends because of Scott’s asthma, and he knows that there’s a part of him that will always be waiting for Scott to realize he doesn’t need Stiles to keep pace with him anymore. Scott can run now, can play lacrosse, has an in with the popular crowd, because he’s dating the new best friend of the most popular girl in school.

And Stiles still has Scott.

Somehow, he still has Scott.

\--

The wolf and the fox spent many nights running together, and their bond grew deeper still. The wolf’s strength lent speed to the fox’s paws, and the smaller animal felt a power within him that he had never before experienced. The scents of the night grew more potent, his ears picked up more sounds than ever before, and he, at last, understood why the wolves clung so hard to pack. They were stronger together, better together, and both the wolf and the fox were at peace with their lives.

Then came the arrival of the falcon.

They were resting when she came. Lying amidst the loam and grass on the forest floor. The wolf caught her scent the second she entered the forest, heard the sound of her wings beating upon the air. The scent was cool and sharp like a brisk winter breeze, but sweet. The near-silent sound of her wingbeats drew him immediately, and he found himself rising from where he lay beside the fox. Found himself getting to his feet and racing away from his one and only packmate, chasing a sweet scent and quiet sound on the evening wind.

He found her preening on an old tree stump, brown and black with splashes of tawny gold. Her claws were sharp and her beak was curved and there was something dangerous in the way she held herself. But the dangers in her edges did not deter him, not with the way her grace and beauty enticed him.

She turned to him as he approached, eyes appraising and cautious, with a clever flicker within them that reminded him of his fox.

 _Can I help you with something, Wolf?_ She asked, tilting her head. _Or are you planning to try and eat me? You won’t have an easy time of it, I’m afraid._ Her feathers bristled and her eyes glinted sharply and she might not have been a wolf but he got the image of bared teeth all the same. _Not all hunters run on four legs._

And he believed her. He stared at her claws and beak and preened feathers and fearless gaze and believed that she was the most dangerous beast he’d ever seen. The wolf was filled with the overwhelming urge to submit himself before her. To bare his neck and belly and promise to serve her forever. She was a falcon not a wolf but there was something _alpha_ about her, regardless. Something that made her something he both feared and wished to follow.

The wolf did not say that, however. Instead, he relaxed his posture and let his tongue loll out of his jaws, all signs of potential aggression bleeding away.

 _That’s true. You’re right. I can see your strength._ He replied quickly, afraid he had already offended her. _You don’t need teeth and claws to be strong._ He paused for a moment, and then added, _Just like you don’t need feathers to fly._

The falcon looked at him curiously, her own aggression subsiding him as she gave the wolf an amused look. _Oh? Are you telling me that you can fly, Wolf? I’ve seen many things, but I’ve never seen your kind take flight._

 _You’ve never seen us run with the wind through our forest then._ He replies, a note of pride in his howl. The wolf fixed his gaze upon her, the same warm brown of tree bark in the summer, and took a step forward.

 _Fly with me, Falcon_ , he growled softly. _And I’ll show you my wings._

_\--_

Allison is a million different things at once. When he first met her, she was his calm, his still water, his zen pool to focus on when everything else was going to hell. And as much as Scott loved her then, he didn’t see the simmering storm beneath the serene surface.

Allison Argent is a hurricane. She is a storm of fury and cold precision. She is dangerous in a way that even Derek Hale can’t accomplish, and less of a pond and more of a glacier. She is rain and hail and snow and ice. Her laugh is warm and her hair is the colour of hot coffee and her eyes the colour of warm chocolate but she is a merciless winter storm.

Scott loves her.

And sometimes it’s amazing that he loves her as his rippling pool of calm water and loves her as storm and ice. Allison is kind and loving and sweet but she has a terrifying ability to switch her emotions off completely and become as ruthless as necessary to get what’s needed to do done.

Scott loves her.

He loves her sweet and he loves her terrifying. When they’re together it’s like he’s floating down a warm river in the summer sun and it’s the most _wonderful amazing_ feeling that fills him up from the inside and spills out in smiles he can’t contain. And when they’re apart it’s like there’s a yawning pit inside of him and it feels like his heart has been encased in stone.

Allison is warm summer days and cold winter storms and she leaves Scott breathless in a thousand different ways. If he had met her pre-Werewolf he doesn’t know whether or not he’d have been able to keep up with her. She’s a beautiful, dangerous whirlwind and he thinks she would have left him stumbling dazed and gasping in her wake.

But he can keep up with her now. And it’s exhausting, because their love life is all danger and death and fighting and some Romeo & Juliet absolute bullshit that makes things a thousand times more complicated than they need to be. They fight beside each other and they fight against each other and at the end of the day it doesn’t matter if they’re a couple or if they’re lives are in danger or if either of them know what the hell they’re doing because when they’re together he feels like he’s _flying._

_\--_

The fox and the falcon were not friends at first.

She was beautiful and dangerous. Swift and silent as the moon and as powerful as the wolves. Her wings could match pace with the wolf’s paws easily, and when the two of them hunted together, the entire forest trembled. They were mighty, fast, strong, and together they were mightier, faster, and stronger. The falcon and the wolf brought out the best in each other, and the fox could not quell the jealousy that came from his only packmate having found someone to fly with. The fox was a hunter as well, but he was not of the same kind as the wolf and the falcon. He had no limitless strength in his muscles, nor did his limbs move at any great speed. He hunted with cleverness, with tricks, with none of the power or agility of the wolf or the falcon.

The wolf did not have to slow down for the falcon as he did for the fox.

To the falcon, however, the fox and the wolf had something she could never be a part of. There was a bond between them, visible in the way they curled up with one another when they rested. The way they melted into each other’s sides and flicked their tongues over each other’s ears casually. They were tied together by something she could not touch. Bound tightly to one another like nestmates, like blood kin. She could fly with the wolf but she could not warm his side at night, nor could she mock wrestle with him on the forest floor.

They viewed each other with apprehension and uncertainty, both afraid of losing the wolf to the other. Because the wolf was unlike any other hunter in the forest. He was kind, and did not bully the other creatures with his strength. He was a protector more than an aggressor, and he gave his friendship freely and willingly. The bloodlust that took hold of other wolves had no sway over him, and he killed only for food. He was a hunter and a predator and dangerous in his own right, but he was rarely angry and always pleasant and so very free with his trust and his love.

It was in this that the fox and the falcon found their kinship.

There was an unprecedented brightness within the wolf. A light that drew others to him, and lent him strength. But it was a weakness too, for too often did the wolf treat his challengers with mercy rather than retribution. Too often did he let challengers to his territory leave with minor injuries rather than taking their lives.

The fox and the falcon were not like that.

The fox and the falcon both had a hint of cunning, a streak of cruelty, a tendency to see the darker side of things. They could both be ruthless, they could both be vicious, and when the wolf’s kindness brought him trouble, it was them who took the steps necessary to eradicate the danger.

 _He can be so blind to the evils of this world,_ said the fox with a sigh, sitting beside the falcon on the old tree stump, _he’s like a kit sometimes. I don’t know what he’d do if I wasn’t here to reveal the dangers to him._

 _He’s soft, like a chick still covered in down,_ added the falcon with a nod, _I don’t know what he’d do if I did not hunt down the enemies he let walk free._

Because the wolf was all light and warmth and brightness, and it was that which drew others to him, kept the fox and the falcon close to him. But they found kinship in their shared darkness, in the sharp edge they had that the wolf did not. In the curling of darkness and mercilessness they brandished in order to protect him.

 

\--

It’s weird, how well she comes to understand Stiles.

The only thing they have in common initially is Scott. Which then grows into a desire to keep Scott safe, a desire to keep Lydia safe, a desire to keep the town safe. Their relationship has very little of anything to do with them themselves.

To Allison, Stiles is mostly an afterthought. He is the boy at Scott’s side, the boy who trails after Lydia, the boy with the getaway vehicle. He is the boy with the sarcasm, the boy ready with a quick remark, the boy who is not supernatural in any way shape or form, has no familial tie to the paranormal, but chooses to submerge himself within it anyways. Their ties to Scott force them to spend time with one another, and slowly, she starts to learn more about him.

 _Stiles loves Scott._ That’s the first concrete thing Allison learns. Whether it’s platonic or not is an area of uncertainty, but there’s no other way Stiles would be flinging himself into danger as often as he does.

 _Stiles would do almost anything for Scott,_ follows. It is quickly joined by, _Stiles is not as harmless as he appears._ And finally, _Stiles is dangerous._ These revelations come one after another in rapid-fire quick succession.

Stiles has no qualms with breaking the law, with breaking the rules, with committing actions on the wrong side of legality, on the wrong side of _morality._ Allison realizes this quite quickly, and it unsettles her. At first, she thinks it’s just because of Scott. That Stiles abuses his dad’s position as Sheriff to keep Scott safe. To be the first to hear about animal attacks, to have access to police vans to lock up dangerous vengeful lizards, to do whatever was necessary to contain the supernatural.

But then Scott tells her Stiles has always been like this.

Not this bad, obviously, but that he’s always had a casual disrespect for the law. That he’s always pushed at boundaries and lines and universally accepted morals.

A chill goes up Allison’s spine when he bluntly suggests _killing_ Jackson as the best solution, but at the time, she’s sure he doesn’t mean it. She doesn’t think Stiles could _seriously_ suggest killing a boy he’s known his whole life for something that’s out of his control. There’s no way a kid her age, Scott’s _best friend,_ could be that ruthless.

Then her mother dies, and she starts to understand.

She starts to understand caustic wit, she starts to understand blurred moral lines, and she starts to understand when _empathy_ gives way to _apathy_ because there’s no hard and fast rule that says she has to care about everyone. It’s okay if she only cares about her family and it’s okay if the pain (and deaths) of others barely ping on her emotional radar.

After her mother and Gerard and the kamina, Allison understands Stiles a lot better. She understands his unyielding loyalty towards his father, to Scott, to Lydia, and she understands the disconcertingly dismissive regard he sometimes has for the lives of people he doesn’t actively care about.

In the aftermath, before she leaves for France, they talk sometimes. They talk without Scott as a buffer between them, and it’s like she’s seeing him for the first time. Stiles is smart, but he has no lofty ideals about using his intelligence for good. He can be outright malicious, and his sarcastic wit is often jagged like barbed wire. It’s easy not to notice, when he’s so often overshadowed by Scott’s huge smile and huge eyes and huge heart, but Stiles has a mean streak a mile wide.

And Allison dug her knives into Isaac’s back and shot arrow after arrow into Erica and Boyd and didn’t feel a thing while she did it. She discovered a place within herself devoid of mercy or morality and as much as it scares her, it is very much a part of her.

Scott is warm and loving and kind straight down to his core. Scott doesn’t have a place like that.

But Stiles

Stiles does.

\--

It came to be that the wolf, the fox, and the falcon did not know how they had ever lived apart from one another.

The slept together, they ran together, they hunted together. Theirs was a pack unlike any other, forged out of necessity and held strong with companionship and love. The fox curled up with the wolf, the wolf flew with the falcon, and the falcon stood watch with the fox. There had never been three animals so different, nor had there been three animals that fit together so perfectly.

The fox was clever, but the wolf was honest, and the latter always stood to remind his packmate of the time and place for tricks. Where the wolf was kind, the falcon was practical, and she made the hard decisions the other would not. And when the falcon could go too far in her ruthlessness, the fox knew how to be temperate with his, and together they reached a balance. The perfect amount to protect each other and their wolf, without offending him and his delicate sensibilities.

The forest was theirs, and the trees echoed with the sounds of their happiness. The wolf’s howls, the foxes growls and yips, and the falcon’s shrill cries. They were not always all together, but they were never alone. Some days the fox and wolf would lie side by side, stare up at the sky and bury their noses into each other’s fur. Some nights the wolf and the falcon would soar through the forest, flying together under the moon’s light. And some days, when the light was dim and the stars had not risen, the fox and the falcon would hunt together, seeking out the enemies the wolf could not- _would_ not- see. They loved his light, but they knew that it could last only so long as they were his darkness.

And when the sun began to rise on the horizon, when the early morning chorus first began to sound, all three of them lay together, curled amidst the shade and shadow of the trees.

 _I cannot believe that I ever lived alone,_ said the wolf, the fox nestled into his side and the falcon settled into the cleft between them, _What were my nights before I had the two of you at my side? I can’t imagine living without either you._

 _Then don’t,_ yawned the fox with a shake of his head. _Why waste thought imagining such a thing? We’re here now, and not likely to leave. If you were hoping to chase me off, you missed the opportunity._

 _We feel the same, Wolf._ Placated the falcon, tugging at the Fox’s ear reprovingly. _Our lives held no meaning before we found each other. We’ll stay like this, with one another, for the rest of our days._

The wolf made a pleased sound before turning his head to pass his tongue over the top of the falcon’s head, and then down across the fox’s ears.

Yes, they would stay together. For the rest of their days.

\--

Things are different, after the nemeton.

It’s not just the darkness, the wide black pit within each of them. It’s not the looming spectre of death that hangs over everything, after losing Erica and Boyd and _themselves._ It’s not the shift in town dynamics, with the Sheriff in the know and Agent McCall lurking around.

It’s just… _them._

A week after their sacrifice Scott has taken to climbing through Stiles’s window to curl up in bed with him. And it’s not that he’s worried, or that he’s scared, but that he needs to be _there,_ needs to _touch feel smell_ and Stiles clings to his jacket and buries himself in Scott’s neck and they’ve always been close but now it feels like having any boundaries between them is torturous.

(they died together)

And Allison, Allison and Isaac were _so close_ to being a thing but she can’t help the way she gravitates towards Scott and Stiles now. The way she brushes her hand against Scott’s back and Stiles’s arms and wants to sob because it’s _not enough._ There was ice and water and whiteness and a tree and the three of them- only the three of them. They were alone in the darkness and they came out of it together and-

-Stiles and Scott have always been brothers and-

-Scott and Allison were once lovers and-

-Allison and Stiles have become something _other_ and-

-and they tumble together. Fall down and tangle in each other’s limbs, fingers interlocked and fisted in hair, noses pressed against cheeks and collarbones and throats lips to temples and lips to lips and hands brushing against hips and chests and sliding across stomachs-

It’s barely sexual, born out of raw emotion and a connection that leaves them all breathless, but they sprawl across Scott’s living room floor barely clothed and not sure where one body ends and another begins. Scott falls asleep with a blissed out smile and Stiles and Allison grin at each other from across the wide plain of his chest. They whisper, about stupid things, funny things, sad things that would probably make their other frown. And it’s okay, because they all fit together differently. They all need each other for different things.

What matters is that they’ve found each other, fallen into each other. They curl up on beds and couches with hands and ankles and lips interlocked and when they’re outside they smother each other with casual touches, fingertips across backs and breaths across necks. They bump hips in hallways and pin each other against trees in the forest and pile into the backseat of Stiles’s car, limbs everywhere, elbows in spleens, laughter and love bites and whispered promises of _yes forever like this forever._

There was death and ice and a white room and the nemeton and darkness.

And then there were the three of them, tangled up and dug in deep, like the roots of a tree.

\--

**Author's Note:**

> this was originally supposed to cover the ending of 3b as well but idk it got weird to write and it ends pretty well here. 
> 
> also this doesn't flow very well but it's a very chopped up story so I guess it's inevitable


End file.
